


Saturday, 6:14 am

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [3]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Anal Fingering, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Morning Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, this is basically just filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: Sleeping with Marty is almost off-putting in that regard, sometimes – the only thing Rust has to do in order to do it right, in order to please, is to just let go and enjoy himself. Mary tends to go wild for that shit. It’s fucking insanity on his part, is what it is.In which some people have a nice, relaxing morning.(This is a sequel to "For lack of love, but not of friendship" but it's basically just porn, so it's pretty self-explanatory.)
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594621
Comments: 18
Kudos: 125





	Saturday, 6:14 am

It’s not quite light out yet, darkness rolling over him like ocean waves, steady and calm. 

He wakes up confused, because he doesn’t remember falling asleep, can’t remember even trying to, but clearly it must have happened at some point. Marty’s bedroom still feels unfamiliar, but not in an uncomfortable way; dark and secure like a cave he could get lost in, water dripping from the ceiling with endless echo to each drip, and nobody would have to know he’s even there. If Marty knew Rust still referred to it as _Marty’s bedroom_ in his head, he’d be… who even fucking knows. Upset? Exasperated? Something. But then again, Rust thinks, there’s a lot of things inside Rust’s head that Marty would be upset about if he knew about them.

There’s sleep still stuck to his bones, which is an unfamiliar feeling as well, but he revels in it because it doesn’t happen very often. He’s not going to fall asleep again, at least not right now, he knows that instinctively, the way some animals might sense water nearby, but it doesn’t matter. 

He’s comfortable, as comfortable as he ever gets, sprawled out on his side, one arm shoved underneath his pillow. Probably taking up more than just half of the bed at the moment, he thinks, at least it feels that way, not that Marty ever complained. Mattress is big enough to compensate, in any case. He shuts his eyes again, lets the darkness wash over him, seeming vast and endlessly soothing today, and allows himself to drift.

He notices when Marty wakes up – wasn’t going to fall asleep again, he knew that already – at least on some surface level, like you might be aware another person just walked into a particular room. Becomes more aware of that fact when Marty presses up behind him, one heavy arm draping itself over Rust’s waist, pulling him close. He can feel Marty’s warm breath at the back of his neck, content exhale, and then a dry, quick kiss against his shoulder.

“Mornin’” Marty murmurs. 

Rust wraps his fingers around Marty’s wrist in response, pulls him even closer. They slot together instinctually, easily. 

“Get any sleep,” Marty continues, not sounding awake at all. 

His underarm feels warm and very substantial. Rust strokes a thumb over the inside of Marty’s wrist, where the skin is soft and paper thin. 

“Sure,” he says, or maybe he just thinks it, he can’t really tell. Doesn’t matter either way. Marty’s hand moves, slow, like a dream or an afterthought, down over Rust’s stomach and then further down still, until he’s hooking a thumb into the waistband of Rust’s boxers, lazily groping him through the fabric.

Rust breathes out through his nose at the warmth blooming behind his eyelids, starting to simmer in the pit of his stomach. Anticipation drips down the back of his throat, makes his spine and all of his nerve endings start to glow. He presses back against Marty, not to get away from the hand on his dick, but because he wants the connection, the warm, solid feeling of another breathing body at his back. Also, he knows Marty likes it, likes the sensation as well as the implication of it, likes Rust having a reaction.

Sleeping with Marty is almost off-putting in that regard, sometimes – the only thing Rust has to do in order to do it right, in order to please, is to just let go and enjoy himself. Mary tends to go wild for that shit. It’s fucking insanity on his part, is what it is. 

Rust can feel himself getting hard under the ministrations, which… it’s just what Marty _does_ to him, alright, effortlessly as well. He’s not sure if he’s ever been this fucking easy for anybody or anything, but it’s not like he could help it if he wanted to; and it’s not like he even wants to, so. There’s that. Marty touches him and something inside of Rust just sits up and starts paying attention.

“Mmmh,” Marty murmurs and pushes his entire hand inside Rust’s boxers. “Good mornin’ to me as well.”

Rust snorts, can’t help himself, just like he can’t help roll his hips. Marty drags his palm over Rust’s dick, presses it down gently, rubbing at it in lazy circles. Reaches even further down for Rust’s balls, rolls those in his palm for a bit, too. Rust groans into the pillow. They haven’t actually fucked at this point, because they’re taking it slow and just… haven’t gotten around to it yet. But. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to. 

Imagines it now, what it would be like, Marty rolling him over onto his stomach, kneeling between his legs and just pushing in; one long, unbearable slide, nailing him to the bed like a fucking stake through the body, suffering in the best possible way. Marty’s got the dick for it, too; wasn’t ever kidding about _that,_ not that Rust hasn’t been aware for years already. Could make him see stars, Rust thinks, could fucking take him places. Rust would let him – hell, Rust _wants_ to let him, right now as a matter of fact. Would just go for it, if he felt a little more proactive, a little less boneless and sleep-dazed. 

Marty’s back to touching Rust’s dick now, working him in a loose grip that won’t be enough for anything but feels amazing nonetheless. He’s getting hard himself, Rust can feel him against the small of his own back; a hard, hot line that might brand him, leave a permanent mark. He’s so lost in the feeling of it all, it’s a bit confusing when Marty lets go without warning and starts to tug Rust’s boxers down, but then Rust catches up and helps him along, taking them off the rest of the way himself. Marty’s doing the same thing with his own underwear, Rust knows that without even looking, can hear him and feel him do it, and something hot suddenly spreads in his chest, seeping everywhere, heartbeat speeding up. 

Then Marty’s back, sticking to Rust’s back like somebody glued him here, fumbling a bit with his hand, and suddenly, his dick slips between Rust’s legs, pushes up right behind his balls. Marty’s breathing has gone a bit harsh. He’s mouthing at Rust’s neck now, licking at his skin like he wants to taste. It feels urgent and graceless and wonderful, Rust thinks, whole body feeling pliant and taut at the same time.

 _“Fuck,”_ he says, breath hitching in his chest. He wants to clamp down around Marty’s dick and never let go again, the intrusion just enough to make him feel shaky and desperate, and he doesn’t even care, wants Marty to take him apart, to rip him open and take whatever the fuck he wants. 

“Alright?” Marty murmurs behind him, low and intimate enough to make Rust shiver.

“Uh-huhh,” he says, which is all he can manage at first, and then, “S’good, it’s… yeah, c’mon-”

Marty starts to roll his hips then, grinding against him, not even moving his dick that much, but it drags over all the right places, like a preview of all the things that could be, that probably _will_ be at some point in the future. Rust clenches his thighs, shuddering when Marty’s dick drags over his hole, just barely. His own dick isn’t just hard by now but _hard,_ and it’s strange Rust thinks, hazy with arousal, this one part of his body, throbbing with blood and perling precome, that makes him feel so out of control and completely rooted in reality at the same time, makes him want to fucking _live_ on his hands and knees, to spread his legs wide and let Marty fucking _have_ him, to just hand himself over completely and be done with it. 

“God, baby, you feel good,” Marty says, voice like a hoarse scratch down Rust's spine. Like always, it makes something defensive and immature inside of him want to protest immediately – _no, YOU feel good –_ like those two things can't coexist and be true at the same time, because it's almost overwhelming to hear. He doesn't know what to do with it. 

“C’mon,” is what he says instead, reaching for Marty's flank and digging his fingers in, urging him on. Marty's dick moves between his legs, slips in and out, and it's not nearly enough, not even close. He feels like he's going out of his mind with the implication of it, the fact that they could be in this exact same position if they were actually fucking, that Marty'd probably use the exact same movements giving it to him. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” Marty pants and then he presses a kiss against Rust's ear, because he can be unbearably sweet at the weirdest times. “Might be misreading this, okay, in which case you need to, to fucking tell me if I am, but you maybe wanna… get the lube?” 

“Yeah,” Rust croaks, and his voice sounds like it belongs to another person, already scrambling for the bedside drawer. The lube has been in there for a few weeks, they've been using it for all kinds of stuff, just never… this. Wants to just hand it to Marty over his shoulder, except Marty's hand is on his chin, all of a sudden, pulling his head around gently and then he kisses him. 

Rust moans into kiss, absolutely shameless about it, because he couldn't bring himself to give a fuck if he tried. He feels weightless and pliant at the same time, here in the murky morning gray of Marty's bedroom, in this bed, thrumming with arousal. 

Marty lets go of him eventually, lets him turn around and wraps his arm back around his waist when Rust curls up on his side again, burrows down into his pillow. He's rocking against the small of Rust's back, slow and unhurried, like they've got all the time in the world, which… they _do_ Rust thinks hazily, still clutching the lube in one hand, that's the thing, they have and they do. Marty could take his sweet fucking time, do with him whatever he wanted for however long he wanted. Maybe that should be a terrifying thought, but all it does is make Rust's dick twitch with excitement. 

Eventually Marty reaches over, plucks the lube from his hand with a kiss against the back of Rust's neck that almost seems apologetic. There's the small _snkk_ of the bottle snapping open, and then Marty says, “You done this before?” 

Maybe they should've talked about this, Rust thinks, feeling impatient, but they haven't and that's that on the matter. He's not gonna open that can of worms right now. Couldn't even say what Marty wants to hear, which version of the truth he'd prefer. Because yeah, Rust _has_ done this before, but it's been fucking years at this point. 

Maybe even a decade. He can't be bothered to remember. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“So… you like this, right,” Marty says, sounding insecure but bravely continuing on, throwing Rust for a bit of a loop, because… fuck. This can't be the main issue here, right? What's that got to do with anything, first of all, and second of all… he’s basically vibrating against Marty at this point, dick rock hard and leaking at the mere thought of it, which… Marty's not _that_ dense. Rust knows for a fact he isn't. 

“Nahh,” he manages. “M'fucking easy for just about anything, right, old fucking habit of mine-”

Marty bites at his shoulder in retaliation, just hard enough to feel it and Rust's breath hitches on a moan. 

“I do,” he says then, suddenly feeling a lot more urgent about it, because it just occurred to him that Marty might change his mind about this, might decide to be a fucking _gentleman_ of all things, which would be a _tragedy._ “I, I do, alright, I fucking- _really_ like it, I do, s'just been a while, but I want you to, so could you _just-”_

"Been a while, huh," Marty, very clearly trying and failing not to sound too pleased about that. 

"Yeah," Rust says, or _tries_ to say, really, because now there's a hand on his ass, fingers digging in, prying him open, and Marty's thumb carefully touching his hole. He's not it pushing in, not even moving it much, just touching him _right there,_ waiting for a reaction. Rust can feel his own breathing go deep and syrupy-slow. 

Marty's hand disappears after a few seconds, and then his thumb comes back slippery-wet with lube, touching him again, circling gently this time. 

"Oh, fuck," Rust says, muffled against the pillow. His face and neck feel hot, everything burning up from the inside, even though nothing has really happened yet. Then Marty dips his thumb in, first knuckle pushing past the initial resistance, and stops, letting him adjust. Rust can feel it in his lower back and his legs, the strange kind of way any tension just drains right out of him, almost against his will, replaced by a different kind, something much more high-strung, shivery and hot. 

He tries to relax, not to clench down, except Marty is moving his thumb now, pushing in and out of him slowly, carefully. Rust draws his top leg up a bit more, completely on instinct, opening himself up for better access. Behind him, Marty makes a satisfied noise. He kisses Rust's shoulder again, like a reward, and then he replaces his thumb with a finger. 

He knows what he's doing, Rust realizes all of a sudden. It comes as a shock, even though it really shouldn't, because Rust _knew that already,_ has heard Marty telling stories about fucking women in the ass in the past, was there for all the locker room bullshit masquerading as normal office talk, but for whatever reason, his brain didn't connect the dots until now – didn't realize how that knowledge would apply to himself, to their own little situation, to whatever it is they have going on between them, right here in this bed. 

It's a stretch – doesn’t _quite_ hurt but it's definitely uncomfortable; which is fine, really, it's all familiar, it's all coming back to him now. Muscle memory, half forgotten at this point, that feels like it's resurfacing from a lifetime ago, and fuck, Rust thinks, in some ways it is. He might not know how long it's been, exactly, but his body definitely remembers, and his body is wide awake all of a sudden, desperately greedy for the sensation. 

"Ffffuck," he says again, rolling his hips, which… oh, God, yeah. Marty's shallowly pushing his finger into him, nice and easy; Rust isn't even sure if this would count as _being fucked,_ Marty opening him up so fucking methodical and slow, but it doesn't matter anyway, because Rust is drenched in arousal just from that, pleasure seeping into everything, golden and slow like molasses, like honey, like being warmed up from the inside out. 

They don't talk, don't change it up, just keep going like this for a long while, the push and pull of Marty's finger becoming easier and easier over time, until Rust is grinding back against him mindlessly. 

"Yeah?" Marty breathes against his neck, voice hot and harsh. "More? You want more?" 

"Yeah," Rust tells him. "Yeah, I… fuck, c'mon-" 

Marty pulls out completely and then he's back with two fingers, just circling Rust's hole again, everything slippery with lube, before he's pushing both of them inside to the first knuckle. Rust hisses at the intrusion, can't stop himself in time, and then he could _kick_ himself, because what if Marty thinks Rust doesn't actually want this, now? What if he thinks that clearly, the pain means they should stop?

Except he doesn't – because Marty knows what the fuck he is doing, Rust thinks hazily, he _knows-_ because _fuck,_ yes, Marty seems completely unfazed, keeping his fingers perfectly still, but not removing them either, just waits patiently for him to adjust. Rust could kiss him, if he felt coordinated enough to actually turn around right now. 

"Easy, sweetheart," Marty murmurs against his shoulder blade, as if on cue. "Gonna get you there, don't you worry 'bout that." 

"Yeah?" Rust manages, trying to be sarcastic, not even sure why, just that he feels like it, because he _can,_ because Marty won’t take him seriously anyway, will _know_ he doesn’t mean it. "Where'm I goin' then?" 

Sounds like he's had one too many, he thinks, words slurring together around the edges. Marty's carefully pushing deeper now, in and out, bit deeper in and then out again, fucking him open with his fingers, oh, _God._ Rust is practically panting, pillowcase under his face growing damp, balanced on the thin edge between pleasure and discomfort. 

"Ohhh, you're gonna be mouthin' off to me right now?" Marty says, bit of a delayed reaction, but clearly teasing. "Yeah? That what's happenin' here?" 

"Yeah," Rust pants, nonsensical. "Yeah, I- _fuck,_ Marty." 

He's so _good_ at this, fuck, or maybe Rust's body just really, really wants to give in to him, that might also a possibility. It's been actual years at this point, and it's not like Rust did this to himself all that often in the meantime, or at all, really, because why the fuck would he even bother? And yet here he is, in Marty's damn bed, glowing with pleasure, with sweetness dripping down his spine and clear need stuck in the back of his throat. 

Left the initial pain behind just like that, Marty coaxing him through it, and here Rust is, open and wanton and ready to go. He's moving on instinct, rolling his hips, couldn't stop if he fucking tried; well aware he’s making some low noise on every exhale by now.

“Hmmm…” Marty says, sounding satisfied. “There we go, baby, you like that?”

"Yeah," Rust says, or tries to say, can't even finish before he moans, back arching helplessly, because… _fuck._ Oh, Christ. Marty found his prostate, probably entirely by accident as well, but it doesn't fucking matter in the slightest, because it feels… Oh _God,_ Rust thinks, lightheaded, heart pounding in his chest, it doesn't matter at _all-_ he can't remember the last time he felt this _good,_ no caveat, no distractions, just pure, physical sensation that makes it impossible to keep his eyes open, has his breath hitching in his throat, everything bright and hot and flooding with pleasure he'd practically forgotten about at this point. 

"Oh," Marty says, sounding surprised. "Oh, yeah? Right there? That what you want?" 

"Yes," Rust hisses immediately, mindlessly. "Yeah, _fuck-_ do, do that-" and then he fucking moans again, completely shameless about it, because Marty just _did it again,_ didn't even wait for him to finish talking. He's still going slow, so clearly trying to get it right and Rust presses back against him, needing the contact all of a sudden, because that knowledge makes everything feel so much more intense, head tipping back against Marty's shoulder, both of their breathing gone harsh. 

Rust is putting on a show, he’s well aware of that, and he should probably care, should at least try to slow it down, ease Marty into this, but he _can't,_ he's too busy feeling things. Marty’s still taking it slow, but he’s got a nice rhythm going now and he’s sticking to it, which has always been the main thing, at least for Rust. A lot of things feel good, make him react, but nothing ever got him going like something slow and steady, rolling over him again and again like ocean waves, like the tide coming in. And yeah, he’s been fucked before, but very rarely like this, and the few times he _did,_ he tried to hide how much it was doing for him, didn’t want to just... hand that out like a fucking leaflet that nobody even gave a shit about. 

But this… this is different in every possible way, because through some fucking coincidence, miracle, whatever the fuck, Marty got it exactly right on the first try, discovered the one thing that just _works_ on a very base level, that makes some wild animal part inside of Rust glow with satisfaction every single time without fail, that winds him up tighter and tighter and makes him feel completely untethered all at once. 

He’s moving urgently now, _fucking himself_ on Marty’s fingers, Christ, just the thought of it, chasing after the sensation, and it doesn’t even matter if he’s openly enjoying this, if Marty _knows_ he likes it, because Marty is _supposed_ to know, Marty can fucking have it all, Rust wants him to, wants him to do this again and again and never stop, because Rust is burning up over here in the best possible way-

And then, all of a sudden, he topples over an edge he didn’t even see coming. Just like that, like it’s easy – pants “oh, _Christ-”_ and then he’s fucking _gone,_ he’s in freefall, he might actually be flying, he couldn’t say for sure. It would come as an actual shock if it didn’t feel so damn _good;_ everything tasting like lilac and dripping with pleasure that is almost too bright, that seems to go on forever. Just long, endless waves that roll over him and pull him apart at the seams. 

He realizes he’s shaking, probably making a ton of noise as well. The only two things that feel like they’re connecting him to the real world anymore are the pillowcase underneath his palm, warm and soft from use, and Marty’s breath against the back of his neck. 

“Fuck,” he manages, too high-pitched to sound anything like his actual voice, but it _must_ be, because he just thought about saying that. _”God-”_

“Shhh, sweetheart,” Marty’s voice says behind him. Rust can feel Marty’s lips against his skin, hot and endlessly soothing. “You’re alright. Look at you, you’re gonna be just fine.”

Marty’s still fucking into him, gentling him through the aftershocks, but _still moving,_ like he doesn’t want Rust to miss anything, wants him to feel it all, and Rust fucking _is,_ he’s feeling it all and then some, shuddering through a new wave all over again when Marty rubs over his prostate carefully. His leg spasms at the feeling, just a bit, and he makes a shocked sound, completely overwhelmed and unable to communicate any of it – except Marty is already pulling his fingers out, because he read the reaction and interpreted it correctly, and wraps his arm around Rust’s waist instead, pressing close again.

Rust paws at his arm uselessly, because he wants to hold on but can’t, muscles refusing to cooperate, soaks in his warmth and tries to remember how to breathe. 

“Fuck,” he says again, vowel stretched on a long exhale, and Marty huffs a noise, murmurs “Yeah?” like he’s amused, but it sounds like an honest question at the same time.

“Yeah,” Rust says, head nodding like on autopilot, even though Marty probably can’t really see that. He can’t remember the last time he felt this boneless, like he could melt right into the mattress and be done with it. Marty might be smug about this later, which is fine, Rust thinks, he can be whatever the fuck he wants. 

The whole room is a lot less dark now, everything slowly peeling into view. They lie there in relaxed silence for a few minutes, breathing together. Marty keeps pressing lazy kisses against Rust’s neck and shoulder every once in a while, thumb stroking back and forth over the fabric covering Rust’s stomach, because they never stopped to get rid of the wifebeater he wore to bed. 

“Can fuck me, if you want,” Rust mumbles eventually. Marty chuckles at that, even though Rust is completely serious about it. He knows for a fact that he’s going to be pretty sensitive right now, and Marty’s dick is decidedly bigger than two of his fingers, so it would probably hurt, but at the same time – who even fucking cares, Rust thinks, he’d be fine with that and then some, if it meant Marty was having a good time. Not like he’s made of glass or anything, and apart from that, the least he can do after everything that has transpired is to suck it up and let Marty have him. After all, it’s not like Rust doesn’t fucking want him to, hasn’t been thinking about it for what feels like weeks on end. 

“Oh, is that right,” Marty says, warm and easy. “If I want, huh?”

He’s not moving a muscle, plastered to Rust’s back, close enough to make it more than obvious that he still seems to be very _interested_ in whatever is happening.

“Yeah,” Rust says, and then, because he thinks he might have figured out the issue, which isn’t all that easy, considering his mind seems to be clouded by some thick, post-orgasm haze. “Want you to.”

Marty is silent for a bit, tightening his grip around Rust’s waist, like he wants to pull him even closer. 

“Maybe later,” he says then. “Yeah? In a bit. Seem barely awake right now.” 

“Fuck you, man,” Rust mutters, “...m’awake” and fine, maybe he doesn’t exactly _sound_ like it, but he definitely is. God, he feels _good._ Like he might float away at any moment, but in the nicest way possible. _In a bit,_ he thinks, well alright. If that’s what Marty wants, then that’s fine by him. 

Seems like they have got some time left, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, guys. The only reason this exists in the first place is because [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx) gave me a prompt, but then this damn thing just kept growing and growing until it was the size of an actual fic, so I was like, you know what. FINE. AO3 it is, then. (Also... Rust POV? Help. I feel like I got a bit carried away with the metaphors.) 
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> Also, this is a series now. Apparently. I'm so fucking mad.


End file.
